Compliments of the Crocodile
by darcyfarrow
Summary: There's a bet going down: how long will the Gold-French marriage last?


Mr. Dove opened the car door and held Ms. French-Gold steady as she climbed out of the back seat. He walked beside her in half-paces so that his boss, a full fifteen inches shorter than he, wouldn't have to jog to keep up. He dipped his head in greeting and she answered cheerfully as passersby bade them good morning. Although she'd retired ten years ago, many remembered her as "the library lady" and her silent chauffeur as "Belle's bodyguard," though there had been no attacks on her person in twenty years. A few even could relate the story of how Dove had come into that role: he had been a wedding gift from Belle's husband. Formerly a loyal and highly valued jack-of-all-trades for Mr. Gold, Dove had vowed on that wedding day to serve Ms. French-Gold with the same dedication and circumspection as he had her husband, for surely she needed it: in the years of her "association" with Rumplestiltskin Gold prior to their marriage, she'd been attacked by his enemies no less than four times.

Mr. Dove escorted her into the bank, then gave a little bow and excused himself to sit in the lobby as the bank president approached with a warm smile and outstretched hand. All around the bank heads snapped up and conversations ceased as President Allen welcomed Ms. French-Gold, because the employees here all had heard what was happening today: the library lady had come to collect on a thirty-year-old bet.

Ms. Allen shot her staff a warning scowl over her shoulder, and everyone pretended to go back to work until Allen had settled her favorite depositor into a leather chair in her glass-walled office. As soon as the glass door closed, everyone dropped their pens and stared openly as Ms. Allen seated herself behind her big desk. The VP of Loans had managed to "accidentally" flip on Ms. Allen's intercom earlier that morning, so the staff gathered round the intercom at the VP's desk, and this is what they heard:

"Ms. French-Gold, how are you?"

"I'm well, thank you, Ms. Allen."

"Please let me extend our condolences for your loss. Your husband had our utmost respect, and, may I say, his business acumen impressed me deeply. I learned a great deal from him over the many years I was privileged to serve him."

"Thank you."

"And I thank you for coming so that we can carry out this, uh, small but significant bit of business." Allen punched up a file on her laptop and skimmed it, though as her staff knew, she was well acquainted with every detail. "So, on May 15, 2014, fifty dollars was placed in an interest-earning account by you and nine other individuals: Emma Swan, Henry Mills-Swan-Cassidy, Regina Mills, David Nolan, Granny Lucas, Ruby Lucas, Leroy Miner, Mary Margaret Blanchard-Nolan, and Killian Jones. A stipulation was placed on the account: the entire account would be paid out to the winner of a bet. After interest, the account now holds $97.57. The premise of the bet was how long your marriage to Mr. Gold would last. Guesses started at Mr. Jones's twenty minutes; most of the guesses clustered in the two- to three-year range. Granny Lucas had the most unusual guess: 'until we find out what really happened to Zelena.' On the more optimistic end, Ms. Swan bet ten years and her mother wagered fifteen."

Belle sniffed. "Fifteen years was a cakewalk."

"Indeed. And the winner of the bet is you, with your wager," Allen reads from her monitor, "'until death parts us.'" Allen gave her client a sentimental smile. "As it turned out, thirty years, the second-longest marriage in Storybrooke. If I may get personal a moment, Ms. Gold, I'm so glad you proved them all wrong."

"Thank you, Ms. Allen. Rumple and I used to laugh our butts off at every anniversary, thinking how befuddled this town was that we'd made it another year. But then I'd feel sorry for them, in their safe, conventional relationships. Life for us was never dull."

"It's my pleasure to pay out this account to you, Ms. Gold. Would you prefer cash or check?"

"Pirate bullion," Belle decided. "I want to walk in to Jones' shoe store and toss it on the counter and say, 'Compliments of the Crocodile.'"

Ms. Allen snickered. "Ms. Gold, if you don't mind, I'd like to see that. 'Compliments of the Crocodile'–yes, indeed." She leaned into her intercom. "Mr. Frankel, find us some gold bullion. The rest of you, back to work." Allen rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in a classic Rumple gesture. "Thirty years. Yes, indeed."


End file.
